The Grand Gift of Silence
by Captain Sway
Summary: Ch. 3 Sherlock wakes up to find himself the last man on earth anywhere. No bodies-everyone has just simply vanished into thin air. - Series of short stories, updated whenever my whim takes me.
1. Humphrey

AN: Note, in the series, the skull isn't really called Humphrey. That's just head canon for a couple friends and me. I would be highly amused and wouldn't put it past Sherlock to give his replacement skull a name though. This series is going to be a collection of one-shots. Not quite sure when I'll update it, but more than likely they will revolve around Humphrey the skull.

* * *

Once again, he was in a taxi cab with Sherlock being dragged to a crime scene. Once again, John had no clue where the hell they were going. Once again, John simply sat there, attempting to refrain from fidgeting and sighing in slowly growing disbelief and anger over Sherlock's reticence on _informing _him of anything.

'Alright, out with it. I'm amazed that you were able to remain that quiet for this long. What is it?' Sherlock's voice cut through the silence and John felt his jaw clench as he inhaled and exhaled through his nose, retaining any form of patience in dealing with his new… acquaintance.

'Why can't you ever tell me where we're going?' he asked Sherlock softly, trying to keep any hint of anger out of his voice. It didn't work as well as he thought, apparently, as the edge of Sherlock's mouth twitched into a grin.

'I must have forgotten to tell you. You're so silent; it's like a grand gift. It reminds me of Humphrey and he never asks questions,' Sherlock said, pulling out his phone to send a quick text; whomever to, John had no idea.

He tried wrapping his mind around Sherlock's last statement. His eyes narrowed and he couldn't stop himself from facing Sherlock and asking, 'Humphrey?'

'Hm?' Sherlock's eyebrows rose as he turned towards John. 'Oh, right! Humphrey. The skull, John. Do keep up now.'

John simply blinked. 'You named your skull?'

He watched as Sherlock's face twisted into a grimace of slight anger over something stupid being asked. 'Not _my_ skull, John. That would be quite beyond me. _The_ skull. Humphrey, the skull.'

'Yes, THE skull! Your skull! The one Mrs Hudson took away. You named it?' John started getting animated, his right hand becoming part of the conversation; moving up and down to emphasise his point.

'No need to get upset. Mrs Hudson may have taken it away, but I know for a fact that she hid it in the back of her cupboard, behind the spice rack. She could never actually get rid of it since it _is _mine,' Sherlock frowned. 'Of course I named it! No need for me to appear more abnormal, simply talking to a skull and calling it 'Skull'. It had to be given a name, so I could address it.'

John huffed out a small laugh and shook his head. 'Believe me, you're anything but normal.' Sherlock gave a small smirk at that. 'Naming a skull so you could talk to it in public… Might it have occurred to you that naming the skull would be more abnormal than not?

Sherlock appeared to think about the question for a moment, before letting out a 'No.' and turning back to his phone. John had to smile, if only for a bit.

'Are you ever going to tell me where we're going?'

Sherlock simply smiled.


	2. The Diva

AN: Enter Irene Adler... kinda. I went with a more Holmesian view of Adler, similar to the Granada television series. She wasn't a thief, people! An adventuress, maybe, but the only crime she committed was a little blackmail and she didn't even follow through with it. xDD I may write an actual case fic with her eventually, but this is what you get right now. :P

* * *

'The American diva, Irene Adler, is planning a huge wedding for the summer season of next year to a small town lawyer she met on a cruise three years ago…' the blonde, bubbly announcer said into her microphone. Her face left the screen and a picture of a young couple came up. The woman was beautiful, with light skin accentuated by her deep, red hair. The man was tall, handsome in a plain sort of way, brown hair and dark skin, smiling down at his apparent fiancée.

John let out a whistle. 'She's a catch that one. Lucky bloke.'

'Hm?' Sherlock looked up from his phone, reading the daily grievances in the news. He looked over at the TV screen for a brief second before returning to his perusing. 'Oh.'

John's head whipped around to look at his flatmate. ''Oh'? That's all you have to say?'

The detective looked up at John and squinted at the screen before looking back. 'Yes, that's all. Why?'

'W…why? She's gorgeous, Sherlock. Look at her!' As if on queue, a close up picture of the diva came onto the screen.

Sherlock shrugged and looked back at his phone. 'I suppose she has certain aesthetic qualities that would be pleasing to the average mind. She might even please a painter of the Renaissance era, but that holds no sway over me. Do you know how many crimes have occurred due to a pretty face and long legs? Too many, that's what.'

The other man scoffed and crossed his arms, 'You speak of artists, I thought you would be pleased by Ms Adler.'

'What do you mean?' Sherlock looked back up at him.

'What I mean is, she may be visually beautiful, but she has other qualities as well.'

'Such as?'

'Have you heard her sing? She's really quite remarkable; I'm surprised you haven't heard of her at all.'

'The entertainment business does not do its job when it comes to me. It's boring and the public squabbles over celebrities who really do not deserve the time nor money that have been invested in them. They get free passes when it comes to the law, even when all the evidence points to them. Why? It is because they're popular, not because they're innocent. Detestable.'

A moment passed. 'Whilst that's all true, it has nothing to do with Irene Adler and her talent.'

'Talent? What talent. She's an enchantress, for sure. Luring men in with her pretty face. I would almost feel sorry for her fiancé if it wasn't so clear that she loves him.'

John frowned. 'How would you know that? You just said you never heard of her.'

'I haven't, but I can hear the tele. They've been dating for three years and that first picture of them looking at each other was recent, set in the past couple of months. I may not understand love, but I can read the signs when people think they're in love. The way that couple looked at each other, they'll be together for a long time. Also, a woman of her status going for a man who is far below her own? Obviously she doesn't care about that sort of stigma,' Sherlock gestured at the TV and put his phone aside. He clapped his hands in front of his face and stared intently at the screen.

John shook his head and laughed, 'You say an enchantress, Sherlock, but I say a siren.' He stood up and walked over to the desk where his computer lay, turned it on and looked up Irene Adler's website. Sherlock continued to watch the television until he heard the quick, soft notes of a piano.

After several seconds or so of the piano playing a small harmony, a voice joined it. A female's, deep and strong, sang in a flawless vibrato, transitioning easily between high and low notes. Her voice was like a dark chocolate to be savoured; Sherlock's eyes closed to concentrate on it better, tuning out the television that moved to a different topic. He leant back in his chair as the voice went from a low A to a high A and steadily back down: F, D, up to E, slowly, but never losing its pace. Sherlock could feel a small smile grow at the corners of his lips as his heart beat evened, calmed under the weight of the piece of music, _art_, flowing into him. The constant vibrato throughout the song with that voice full of passion, _heart_, spoke to him in measures, beats, and he could only find it to be gorgeous.

All too soon, the song ended.

'Well?' John prompted, turning from his computer to look at the back of Sherlock's head. 'Of course, she's retired from the opera when she met her fiancé, but she still sings on occasion.'

He waited for a response, almost thinking that Sherlock was ignoring him before a soft, 'Beautiful' reached his ears. He blinked, almost astonished. 'I'm sorry, what was that?' he asked, attempting to confirm.

'Gounod's version of _Ave Maria_, adapted from Bach's Prelude No. 1 in C major, sung by a coloratura contralto with an accompanying piano. It's a shame she quit,' Sherlock waved his hand as if those small facts were obvious. He added, nearly under his breath, lowly, 'She is beautiful.'

Giving a small, mischievous smile, John couldn't help teasing, 'She?'

'I didn't stutter. You are right. She is a siren.'


	3. Silence

AN: Written for a prompt on the Sherlock BBC meme.

* * *

Silence.

Quiet. Nothing.

_Processing_.

Still nothing.

He strode down the street, headed towards his home, his sanctuary. His footfalls were the only source of noise as they hit the pavement.

_Thud. Thud_.

The windows of buildings he stared into used to be so full of life, of vigour, of humanity. The bustle of people as they shopped, talked, walked. With noise.

No noise now. It made him want to scream to fill up the silence, but he didn't. It was peaceful in a way, the lack of noise with nothing to gather information from to fill up the recesses of his brain so he could later delete them. All his life, there was noise, too much noise, that he attempted to drown out, but it could never be silent. Whilst he thrilled on noise, sometimes it could be too much.

However, this was _oppressive_.

Two hours, thirty-seven minutes and twelve seconds ago, he had woken up in the mud on the edge of the Thames. He was still cold, he was still hurting, he was still confused. Most of all, he was still lonely. His mobile received no signal, which was odd in the middle of London. He tried the nearest phone after he was able to rouse himself from the ground, but there was no dial tone. He stared into the CCTV cameras that he could spot on the corners of the road; just for kicks, certainly not for the small bout of fright that was edging into his mind. They didn't move. They weren't even looking in his direction.

He huffed.

There was no-one. No-one at all and so he headed home after taking a few detours around the city to assure himself of that fact. Not _re_assure, there was no reassurance if that was the case. He needed life, London and humanity. If only to save him from himself.

To stop the silence.

The address he was looking for came into view and he hurried to the door of 221B Baker Street. He unlocked the door and threw it open, letting it slam on the wall behind it. Dissonance. It was so loud and he gave a small grin of satisfaction. He called out for someone, speaking for the first time since he woke and noticed he was alone.

No one answered his calls.

Not even as he rushed up the stairs, opening each and every door with a loud bang. He ran to the second floor and threw open the door there before returning to the ground floor and seeking out his landlady's rooms. There was no yelling telling him to stop his bustling about and cease the doorway explosions. This would not do. His brother was missing, his landlady was gone and his friend was nowhere to be found.

Not to mention the rest of London seemed to have vanished into thin air.

Improbable. No, this was _impossible_. There was no possible way the rest of the human race could vanish and leave him behind without him knowing. He was only out of consciousness for, at most, three hours. There were no signs of impending doom, which he scoffed at, nor were there signs of evacuation warnings, weather problems, _nothing_, before he passed out.

He grabbed the remote and turned on the television. Only, it didn't turn on. No click of electricity flow. Nothing. It wasn't for another minute that he realised he was constantly clicking the 'On' button and receiving no signal. As well as nearly hyperventilating.

He threw the remote at the TV, relishing in the shattering sound of the plasma screen caving in.

He turned to his laptop and pressed the power button, gasping in relief that it actually worked. However, the internet didn't. Cursing, he slammed it shut and clenched his hands together to reign himself in. Of course, there was no one to work any of the electrical companies, to give him internet, phone service, cable. Thinking about, it was absurd since there should've been reserves of energy, but it was the only logical explanation to give the facts that laid before him. He did not like it. Not at all.

Deciding to hope that it was just a bad dream, he did the only thing he could do and slept. He usually had a hard time sleeping as there is too much noise in his ears, but he never minded it. He had worked around it and claimed that sleeping did not allow him to think as it wasted time. Also a good point. However, it was mostly because of the noise. Never ending noise.

There was no noise here and he slept. Soundly.

He woke up several hours later and still could hear nothing. Instead of venturing into the silent world, he laid in bed, staring listlessly at the ceiling, willing his friend to call out to him from the sitting room. Or perhaps his landlady calling him from downstairs when she finds his muddy shoes in the foyer. Or possibly the detective inspector bounding up the stairs to alert him of a new case. A call. A text. Anything.

It felt as if hours had passed and the only sound he could hear was the sound of his own breathing. Softly: inhale, exhale, inhale. Thinking got boring very quickly. There was nothing to think about and yet, too much. The greatest riddle of his life was presented before him and all he could keep thinking was: impossible.

_Impossible_.

Swinging his legs to the floor, he jumped out of bed and scooped up his jacket and scarf and headed outside of his home. If, _if_, this entire situation was impossible, he had to figure out why. He was never good at staying still for long periods of time, especially on a case and this was the biggest yet. How could the entire population of London vanish in several hours time?

He wandered around the streets, taking backways and alleys, looking for anything alive. When that failed, he ran to Pall Mall and located his brother's address. He kicked down the door after knocking didn't work and called out his brother's name. Hearing no response and seeing no one in the house, he ran down the street to where his brother worked. There was no one in the entire building, let alone his brother. He made one last stop across the road from his brother's home to go to the quietest club in London.

It felt even more ominous than it usually did.

Mostly for the lack of presence. He cursed in the Silent Room before hysterical laughter bubbled over and broke through as it was probably the only sound from a single person the room had ever heard in years. Then he laughed more at the thought that if the walls had ears, they would probably be deaf from the lack of sound anyways.

He sighed and turned onto his back. He had collapsed on the ground after his fit and he tried regaining his breath, which came back slowly, with deep breathes. He stared at the ceiling.

Dulled. Silent. Quiet. Still. Mute. Solemn. Noiseless. Soundless. Quelled. Suppressed. Death.

_Sherlock_.

Fuck it.

He grabbed the foot of the nearest chair and came up swinging. The momentum of it as it flew into the bookshelf across the room jerked him onto his feet and he fell onto another seat. In turn, he grabbed that one by the headrest and tossed it into the mantle above the fireplace, shattering several bottles of alcohol and cracking the glass of the Queen's portrait.

Tossing and turning and throwing every piece of furniture he could get his hands on. Swinging back and forth, with passionate fury, until the destruction of the room wasn't _loud enough_. More, more, more. He ran out into the hallway and grabbed a lamp, throwing it at the doors. It burst into a white dust surrounding cracked pieces of clay. Not enough, not enough. He grabbed the desk it was on and threw it through the window of the Silent Room.

It made the most magnificent explosion of noise he ever heard.

The initial crash followed by glass fragments falling on top of each other, amplifying the soft tinks into a rather large fwoosh. He watched as what little light was coming through the windows reflected off each tiny piece, giving them small glitters in the air. It was fascinating to watch and it was if they fell in slow motion to the ground with a small clink after small clink after small clink.

Need more.

After grabbing a chair from the Room, he kicked the doors through again, crunching the lamp's remains under the heel of his shoe, hearing the grind it gave. He took the chair into both hands and brought it down on the window of the next building. Once, twice. And then the next. And the next. Then the chair gave out and the legs fell off and he grabbed the nearest potted plant and threw it through another.

He needed something a little more sturdy. The lack of things to throw, to smash, to destroy, was starting to grate on his nerves. He needed more. Venturing inside the buildings, he obliterated everything he could see. One by one by two, he went from door to door on a home-wrecking spree.

Not enough noise.

It was happenstance that he found the baseball bat. As he hefted it in his hands, he could feel the maniacal grin grow on his face. His hands hurt, his sides hurt, his head hurt. He was sure he was covered in glass and grit and still that damn mud from the river. Never mind. He had a bat now. All was well.

The metal felt good in his hands that were covered in nicks and cuts that welled blood. He caught sight of his face in a mirror and noticed his face was as well. Bloody. His eyes were wide and wild and heated and scared that he didn't recognise himself.

Then he beat the mirror in.

And the desk it was over became a casualty of war. As did the door it was next to. His new weapon made this entire mission to create noise easier. Every single time it hit something, it reverberated with waves of impact that went through the metal and into his shaking arms, giving a whock and a gong that was loud in his mind with each swing. Back and forth his arms went, over and over into each piece of furniture, personal objects, glass - especially glass - that were all proof of life that didn't exist anymore other than his own.

He continued on, complete havoc on London, the city that should not have stopped. He did not want to live like this, in a world with no mental stimulation. Sure, there were places he could go, things he could see in total silence with no one to harp at him, make him cringe with their whingey voices and lectures and cries and yells and stories and life.

His legs stopped moving and he slowly sank to the ground.

He was back outside of 221B, his home, his sanctuary. Except no one was there. No one was here and he could not keep going because there was no one. No one to greet him, even if he ignored it. No one to tell him to stop his racket, even if he was too busy with his violin or experiments to hear what they said. No one to talk back to him, even if he flourished on their words.

_Sherlock_.

Tears ran down his face.

He did not know what to do and he hated it. He didn't even want to venture outside of London to see if this mysterious vanishing act was plaguing the rest of the world. Even after his mad dance of annihilation over the city, he felt empty. Too quiet. The only sound was the sound of his cries and screams as he went hoarse over the lack of anything to keep him company. He could survive if there was one life left besides his own, specifically that of his friend's. His friend liked to listen to him and his noises and that would have been enough.

As much as he hates humanity, he loves it. People occupy his mind and give him something to do. Without them, he ceased to exist. They gave him purpose, a sense of self that he never would of had without their greed, emotions, hate, death. Breathing was boring, crime was fascinating. He needed his mysteries more than he needed air. His own mind was so silent that he needed the noise to stay sane.

Something clicked.

He grabbed his bat and kicked the door of his home. Except it was not his home. The spectre of his home. He went to his landlady's rooms and smashed everything inside. Her kitchen, her room, her sitting room. Demolished.

Not enough. He ran up the stairs, batting the railing off and smashing the window out at the landing. The door to the kitchen was ripped off its hinges and he took one look at his chemistry set on the table before rending it all to sand. Chemicals sprayed everywhere along with the glass, creating droplets among the gems. Next, he went to the dishes, in the sink, on the counter, in the cupboards. The mugs were sent flying to the ground and he noticed faintly that his friend's RAMC mug was one of them along with his favourite tall blue one.

_Sherlock_.

The teapot went clanging on the floor and the fridge was emptied before the shelves were pulled out and dropped with the food and body parts. After he beat the oven it, he ran to his room and messed up his entire life's work. Case notes shredded, his violin splintered, his clothes ripped at the seams. Nothing was spared.

He was left, panting at the doorway, looking around at the chaos he created. Not enough. Never enough.

He went to the restroom and turned the ceramic into dust. To the sitting room, he grabbed the skull and threw it at it's matching picture across from its spot on the mantle. His armchair was thrown out the window and the lamp was used to beat out the other. The settee was more of a challenge so he picked the baseball bat and smashed it into three pieces. The desk and laptops were also beaten in and he sent his friend's armchair careening into the bookshelf, all the books dropping to the floor, and the Union Jack pillow was bitten apart.

_Sherlock_.

He yelled with what little voice he had left. He was destroyed. Everything of himself was gone, it had to be. His home was his sanctuary and it was destroyed. He should have been as well. Nothing of his life besides his life was in a single piece.

He bashed the floor with the bat in a rage.

This did not make sense. Why did it not make sense. Nothing made sense. How could it make sense. He was alone. Nothing. Quiet. Peace. Not peace. Never peace.

Peace.

That was it.

He ran out into the hallway and up the stairs to the floor where he rarely ventured. Several times he came to this room, but it was not often. Usually his yells would be enough to wake his friend and he had no need to even set foot on the steps. He opened the door, slowly, and took stock of the room that was revealed.

It was small, compact, like the man who lived here himself. It was mostly bare, but with personal items that made it homely. Neat and clean, leftovers from not only his military days, but his university and childhood ones.

It was almost sad that he had to mess it up.

Hesitating, the first thing he did was break the last window in the house that was still intact. Next, the bed and it's nice and tight bedclothes that were stripped and shredded. The pillows were cut open and the cotton was sent floating around the room. The mattress was shoved into the hallway and down the stairs before the bed frame was broken with the bat. The bat bounced off the springs and refused to split and so he upturned it out of his way. The closet door was cracked and the clothes inside received the same treatment that his did. As did the clothes in the dresser.

_Sherlock_.

The dresser had the drawers taken out and thrown against the wall and then he finished it off by kicking out the structure. The books were ripped apart and so were the journals that his friend loved to take notes in. The alarm clock was used to smash in the mirror. He picked up the bedside table and beat the pictures of his friend. The glass cracked, obscuring pictures of friends, family, his friend. His friend. His friend's smile disappeared as the pictures we destroyed by the sheer amount of pressure the glass gave, cuts everywhere before his friend's face was shredded on paper.

_Sherlock_.

Not much left. His friend, his dear friend, had so little possessions. He needed to fix that, but his friend was such a practical man. The only object left was the service pistol.

After he was done tearing the room apart, he grabbed the gun from where it lay on the ground amongst the glass. He first emptied the clip into the walls in no specific pattern. Bang. Bang. Bang. Here, there, out the window. Then he took the magazine out and snapped it with the butt of the pistol. Then he picked up the bat in one hand and the pistol remains in the other, tossing the gun up and down lightly before letting it fly into the air.

He swung.

It cracked. Everything cracked.

The world caved in and fell into a vacuum with an explosion of sound. Beeps, bangs, gusts, everything was moving so fast and making so much noise that it made him wish he had one more bullet in the gun that he destroyed.

Then it stopped. His head was pounding once more and his face felt dirty. His eyes fluttered and he saw water trying to reach out towards him, but never quite touching. His entire being felt heavy and he only wanted to close his eyes again and sleep for the next day or two.

'Sherlock!'

Ah. A sound.

_Peace. _


End file.
